“This is . . . scalding,” Nick says, looking down at his white thermal, the one that’s now soaked in hot chocolate and clinging to his body in a way that is positively Colin Firth in any given movie (Annie’s made me watch Bridget Jones’s Diary and the entire Pride and Prejudice miniseries way too many times).

Tobin and Nick both look at me and I realize I’m making an inappropriate low, guttural noise, kind of like that time we took a school field trip to the Columbus Zoo in the fifth grade and we saw the Aldabra tortoises mating.

I cough. “Sorry. Something in my throat. Um, okay, right.”

I begin to apologize for the delay to the customer who’s waiting, but she doesn’t even notice my words because she’s staring, openmouthed, at Nick and his accidental entry into a wet T-shirt contest.

And who can blame her? Certainly not me. So much of popular culture acts like men have to be super muscular to be attractive, with bulging forearm veins and abs so distinct you could vigorously scrub laundry on them. Nick’s arms are thick but not scarily so, and his abs lack that washboard definition, but he’s still got what it takes to entrance a line full of caffeine-seeking women (and a few men).

I grab a new hot chocolate myself, despite Tobin’s offers to get one, and hand it to the customer in front of me while refraining from reaching over to gently close her mouth. By the time I’m on to the next customer, Nick is gone, presumably off somewhere changing into something less straight out of a beverage-themed rom-com.

“Uh, Chloe?” Tobin asks, an empty roll of paper towels in his hand, a smaller but still sizable puddle of hot chocolate at his feet.

He looks so helpless that I can’t be annoyed. “I’ll go get more paper towels, buddy.”

Our “supply closet” is a shelf that lines the walls of Nick’s office, so I hightail it back there. I burst through the door but stop so quickly that I almost topple over. Nick is at his desk, leaning over his wet shirt, and he is . . . not wearing another shirt.

For the record, that means he is currently shirtless, and I am in the same room with him.

“Ahh!” I shout, then grab a roll of paper towels off the shelf and throw them at him.

“What was that for?” he yells.

“Put some clothes on, you perv!” I shout, covering my eyes. “The rest of us don’t parade around here naked, you know?”

“I’m in my own office,” Nick grumbles. “Also, I’m not naked. I’m not wearing a shirt, which is a state many people are in when they mow their lawns. Don’t act like it’s so offensive.”

“The sign on the door says No shoes, no shirt, no service,” I point out.

“We don’t have a sign like that.”

“Well, maybe we should!” I yell, opening my eyes. Nick is still shirtless, still dabbing ineffectually at his shirt with a wet paper towel.